The cheerless grey of the advancing autumn tended to drive me into an introspective mood, but this year, with Sherlaith growing more exuberant as her belly swelled, I remained even-tempered. Only when inspiration evaded me and I was left staring at the scarce content of Book II did I veer towards despondency. I desired to produce four books of equal length and importance, but if I could not remember more of Cuthbert’s time as a monk, what was I to do? I tried meditation, prayer and self-loathing, none of which had any effect until I surrendered to acceptance.
Often, I wonder whether I am in control of my actions or perhaps I should learn, like Job, to accept the life conferred upon me. I have come to believe that mine is guided by an unseen force. I hesitate to say that Cuthbert was ensur
